


Lift home?

by Onomatopoetikon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Consensual removal of glasses, Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff without Plot, Friends With Benefits, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Way better than the Ark, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25444483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onomatopoetikon/pseuds/Onomatopoetikon
Summary: Aziraphale cannot refuse Crowley's offer of a lift home, even though he probably should. 3000+ words of mostly fluff and loving adversaries-turned-partners making their six-thousand-year-old relationship work by actually talking about some things, and not talking about others. Sometimes, you just need a little time together.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	Lift home?

It is an offer Aziraphale simply cannot refuse, not even considering it is a demon who makes it. This is Crowley after all, and after what Crowley has just done, how could Aziraphale ever decline? 

Instead, Aziraphale steps carefully into the automobile. Sleek and black and powerful, it is as if someone has taken Crowley's very essence and made it into a machine. 

“Yours?” Aziraphale asks, fingertips stroking the supple leather of the seat.  


“Mm, yeah, yeah, got it a while back.” Crowley’s voice is distracted, uncharacteristically soft, just like it was in the ruins of the church just before. “Major upshift from horses, if you ask me.”  


It has been years since they last saw each other. Seventy-nine years, to be exact; Aziraphale has been counting. Has been unable to forget Crowley making that horrible request of him, and the look on his face, and his voice as he spat back _“fraternising?!”_ with such vehemence as Aziraphale had never heard before. The sensation of something breaking beyond repair when Aziraphale told Crowley he did not need him.  


Seventy-nine years was all it took to prove just how wrong he was.  


“You’re still at that corner shop, yes?”  


It is evident Crowley knows this for a fact, but Aziraphale still nods.  


“Yes,” it comes out faintly, and he clutches the stack of books to his chest. “I am.”  


The automobile comes to life with a distinct rumble, and Crowley navigates the streets without another word. There are people out, despite the air raid signals, helping each other free of giant piles of rubble that only minutes ago were buildings. Homes and shops. For a moment, Aziraphale wonders how many people had to die for Crowley to save him; how many lives have been wasted to spare him the paperwork of petitioning for a new corporation? But then, he reminds himself, these bombs would have only fallen in another part of the city. Snuffed out other lives. It is still not fair, it is definitely not right, but that is not Crowley’s fault. Presumably. Aziraphale probably should not believe him, but he cannot help it. He wants to.  


“You saved me.”  


“Yup” Crowley says, making the _p_ pop.  


“Why?”  


“Told you. Wanted to spare you the embarrassment of having to explain yourself to your bosses.”  


“Yes, you said. But Crowley… after all this time. After… what was said between us...? Why?”  


He does not even know how Crowley seems to always manage to find him, especially when he is in trouble, particularly _embarrassing trouble_ , but that does not matter right now. This question does.  


Crowley does not speak, only bites his lips in a way Aziraphale has never seen before.  


“Couldn’t have you taken out by some Nazi dimwits” he says eventually. “What if you were reassigned and repurposed and replaced? I’d have to start all over again, it’d take another five thousand years to get a working relationship like ours.”  


Aziraphale swallows. There is a lot more truth to this answer than he expected, truths they rarely touch upon. Apparently, tonight is an exception.  


“You were worried about me” he translates, not quite making it a question. Crowley makes a non-committal noise, which given the circumstances probably means ‘yes’.  


“Thank you” Aziraphale whispers, his eyes downcast on the books in his lap, as Crowley guides the car around a partially blocked street corner. “It was not my intention for the situation to spiral like that, I thought I-”  


“Thought you were doing a good thing” Crowley finishes the sentence for him and sighs. “I know, angel. I know.”  


“You saved me” Aziraphale says again, unable to keep his gaze from Crowley a moment longer.  


Crowley groans.  


“Ack, stop saying that, angel! What if someone hears you?”  


“What, in your automobile?”  


“ _Essspecially_ in my car” Crowley hisses, then adds: “And for the record, I didn’t. _You_ did. In fact, you did all the saving. I just messed with some coordinates. Added chaos to an already miserable night, that’s what I did.”  


Technically, it is true, Aziraphale realises. Crowley redirected a German bomber. Aziraphale miracled them both alive and well out of an exploding building. For the record, and for those keeping the records, this is what will be noted. The technicalities.  


“I see” Aziraphale says, frowning. “Well, I do appreciate it, nonetheless.”  


Crowley shrugs; a rather impressive feat, considering how much effort he has to put into steering.  


“Can’t go around saving angels” he mumbles. “’d look bad on my resume.”  


“I remember” Aziraphale says quietly. “Paris.”  


“Hgnrfm” Crowley grumbles, and makes another turn. They are in Soho now, only a few blocks from the bookshop, and Aziraphale does not want this trip to end. If he lets Crowley drive off, who knows when they will see each other again? What if it is another eighty years?  


Crowley hits the brakes suddenly and hisses. Caught in the headlights is a small child that must have run across the street. A woman comes running after, and with frantic gestures she gathers the child in her arms. When she looks up at them, her face covered in soot and brick dust and streaks of tears down her cheeks, her gratitude hits Aziraphale like a wave. All breath is knocked out of him momentarily, her pain and relief the only things clear to him. A minute ago, she thought she had lost everything. A moment ago, she realised she had lost nothing.  


Beside him, Crowley gestures at the mother to get off the street, and then accelerates with a wince.  


“Are you…” Aziraphale begins, then stops to wet his lips, still shaken by the overflow of human emotion. “Are you quite alright?”  


“Fine” Crowley says, his jaws clenched tightly. “Just fine.”  


“But you-”  


“I said, I’m fine, angel!”  


He does not look it. Not in the slightest. But they are coming up to the bookshop now. Crowley turns off the engine and time is up, yet Aziraphale cannot bring himself to leave. That mother's fears, they linger with him still. How the loss of material things diminished into nothingness, when contrasted with the near loss of the person dearest to her heart. Aziraphale could not bear such a loss. But in trying to shield himself from that potential loss, devastating as it would be, has he not still lost Crowley? Seventy-nine years is a long time, even for them.  


“I’m sorry” he says, the words rushing out. “About last time. What I said. I didn’t mean it, Crowley, not the way it came out. I am truly sorry.”  


Crowley sighs but does not let go of the steering wheel.  


“I know. I was asking too much.”  


_Of you_ , Aziraphale adds silently to himself. _Of me._  


“I can’t give you… I can’t, Crowley.”  


“I know.”  


“It’ll destroy y-”  


“ _I know_ , angel!” Crowley shouts, making Aziraphale jump. “Bless it all to heaven, _I know_ , and if I didn’t, if I by some _gloriousss_ accident had forgotten, that fucking church floor damn sure reminded me!”  


Aziraphale stares at him as the words sink in, his fears instantly pushed aside for this much more immediate worry.  


“You burned your feet” he whispers, and if he had not been sure already, Crowley’s tight expression, not quite a grimace, confirms it. “That’s why you’ve been driving so gently, I thought that must be unlike you.”  


“The humans have enough on their minds tonight, no need to add traffic to their problems” Crowley mumbles.  


“You’re in pain!” How could he not notice, not _realise_? Sit here and fret over holy water, when he knows consecrated ground is just as effective in destroying a demon permanently - only slower, more gruesome, a horrible sight to behold - and Crowley not breathing a word about it! “Come with me.”  


Crowley glances at him, hands still on the wheel.  


“Into the bookshop” Aziraphale continues. “Let me have a look.”  


“Look, angel, it’s not-”  


“I won’t take no for an answer on this, Crowley. You were injured, sav- for me.” The last two words a lot less stern than the ones that came before them. Something is cramping in his chest. “Please? It’s the least I can do.”  


Crowley grumbles, curses under his breath, and then finally, _finally_ , releases his grip on the steering wheel. Aziraphale exhales, and some of the cramping sensation eases as he too exits the car with the books pressed to his chest. It still boggles his mind that Crowley had the presence of mind to save them. That Crowley prioritised saving them. For Aziraphale. One more favour that Aziraphale can never hope to return.  


There is none of Crowley’s usual swagger as he makes his way to the door. He does not limp, exactly, but there is an amount of care to every step that Aziraphale has never seen before, and Crowley’s jaw is clenched tightly shut. Aziraphale lets him into the bookshop and then follows, locking the doors and setting the stack of prophetic books down on an end table. He can deal with them later.  


“Have a seat, dear.”  


He motions to the inner room where they always sit whenever Crowley visits, and removes his coat. Crowley plops down into his usual armchair and Aziraphale’s heart does a silly thump at seeing him there, surrounded by the comforts of the wooden shelves and leather-bound codices and warm light that are Aziraphale’s home. Kneeling in front of Crowley he looks up at the demon’s face, whether to ask permission or give warning, he is not entirely sure himself. Crowley’s face is tense.  


“Angel, look, there’s no need for you to-”  


Aziraphale unlaces one shoe, then the other, then pulls them both off.  


“Really, angel, you don’t…”  


Aziraphale rolls down the first sock along Crowley’s calf, then the other, and places each one in their respective shoe. He is as gentle as he can but still Crowley winces, and it is frightfully obvious why. While Crowley’s calves and ankles are pale, the soles of his feet are a furious red, covered in angry blisters fringed by skin burnt to a blackened crisp. As though the icily cold stone floor, and the minute Crowley spent upon it, were in fact hours spent on burning coals. _Only_ , Aziraphale thinks, _much, much worse_.  


It will be years before he heals. 

“Don’t make that face, angel” Crowley says from above him.  


He sounds so kind, so gentle, as if it was Aziraphale who was hurt and in pain. But it does hurt, seeing Crowley like this. Injured because of him. Putting himself in danger, because of Aziraphale getting himself into trouble and not wanting to bother with getting himself out of it. Again.  


“But this is my fault” he protests. “You are in pain because of _me_ , Crowley.”  


“Only because you chose a church as your bloody rendezvous point” Crowley says. “I made a decision, angel. I knew what would happen and I used my free will and did it anyway. It’s not that bad. It’ll heal.”  


He looks so sincere, and so kind, and so sad, and it makes Aziraphale feel even worse. Why is Crowley not chewing him out? Blaming him, when it is clearly his fault?  


“I’m sorry” he whispers, hanging his head. “I’m so sorry, Crowley.”  


“Stop it.” Crowley shifts in the armchair, leans forward and puts a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, encouraging him to look up again and meet Crowley’s gaze, hidden though it is behind the dark glasses. “‘s alright, Aziraphale.”  


Leaning into the caress, Aziraphale wishes he could sink into that place Crowley has made for him and never have to leave.  


“Stay the night” he blurts, before he can think twice and change his mind.  


Crowley blanches.  


“What?”  


“Here” Aziraphale says, redundantly. “With me.”  


He puts one hand on Crowley’s knee. Strokes the soft fabric of the black dress trousers with his thumb. Bites his lower lip.  


“I’ve missed you, Crowley” he continues. “More than I can say, to be quite honest. And I know it won’t solve anything, but, please stay?”  


It is a risk, Aziraphale knows that. Just like every letter, every phone call, every meeting always has been. But it has been almost eighty years, and Crowley is injured but not yet lost, and if there is any way for Aziraphale to show his gratitude, make all this pain and suffering somehow up to Crowley, he needs to try. And maybe, for one night, not be alone.  


He is standing on his knees, right in front of Crowley in the armchair, their faces mere inches apart when he reaches his hand up to remove Crowley’s hat. The gesture is unhurried, to give Crowley every chance to say no, but the demon is silent and Aziraphale sets the hat down on the end table next to them.  


“Your hair is so short” he says, unable to refrain from combing through the red buzz with his fingers.  


“Fashion” Crowley croaks, and Aziraphale chuckles and sighs.  


“I do miss it long.” He touches the rim of the dark glasses. “May I?”  


“Yeah angel… go ahead.”  


He removes the glasses gently, careful not to let them snag, and his chest wells with warmth at the sight of Crowley’s eyes revealed. Their usual yellow iridescence is lent a golden shimmer from the dim lights, and as the pupils contract, Aziraphale is sure he could lose himself in these eyes. He cannot imagine the world without them.  


The glasses end up next to the hat, out of sight and mind, and with those removed, there is nothing between them now. When he raises his other hand up, too, to cup Crowley’s face between them, Crowley mirrors the movement, his hands on Aziraphale’s hands on Crowley’s cheeks, and Aziraphale marvels at the touch. At touching Crowley. It still feels forbidden, even after all this time. Perhaps especially after all this time.  


“What if-” Crowley chokes, but Aziraphale shakes his head.  


“I won’t fall” he whispers, trying to sound more certain than he is, as if in saying it, he makes it so. “It hasn’t happened before, it won’t happen tonight. I’m not rebelling, just… doing my job. In a literal sense.”  


Crowley goes an immediate, endearing shade of red, but he does not break eye contact.  


“Stay the night?” Aziraphale says again, making it a question this time.  


Crowley nods, still with Aziraphale’s hands on his cheeks. Aziraphale leans up, and in, with that exhilarating dread that maybe, maybe, this is the time it happens. But he does not fall. His lips meet Crowley’s, and his soul soars.

He carries Crowley up the stairs, ignoring the demon’s protests about indignity and angels with superiority complexes, because he simply _refuses_ let Crowley take another step on those poor feet tonight. Somewhere halfway up the stairs, Crowley begins kissing his neck and it is wonderfully distracting. Even more so when Aziraphale puts Crowley on top of his bed and Crowley pulls him down, too. Crowley is on his back and Aziraphale is on his hands and knees above him, with Crowley’s arms wrapped around his neck, and they are devouring each other with kisses.  


Crowley tastes just as he remembers, greenery and starry skies and sweet, sweet fruit.  


“What do you want, angel?” Crowley’s voice is a subterranean rumble just under Aziraphale’s lips, his flaming hair like a halo against the white of the pillow.  


“You” Aziraphale whispers back, unable to hold back a smile. “In me.” He thrusts against Crowley, like a wave coming onto shore, and kisses Crowley’s neck. “To begin with.”  


It is all hands then, fumbling with buttons and sleeves. Mumbles and giggles – _your legs are too long, Crowley!_ and _another button, angel, how many do you need?_ – and kisses. Kisses upon kisses, long and passionate ones, flocks of them painting butterfly trails across each other’s bodies, kisses and touches that leave Aziraphale’s skin tingling and trembling and blossoming until he can finally lower himself down on Crowley’s cock.  


He gasps at the intimacy, at the sensation of being completed. At the carnality of the act, this utterly human thing, the sheer ludicrousness that he can have this, _be with Crowley like this_ , and not fall.  


“Hold on” Crowley pants, and sits up. They shift around in the bed, somewhat awkwardly, but Aziraphale giggles and blushes at the blunders of their bodies, and soon he is in Crowley’s lap. Crowley is inside him once more and they are face to face, lips colliding again and again while Aziraphale rocks them together and Crowley jerks him off, and it is spectacular in a way that defies words. He comes, too quickly by far, but it does not end. Instead, Crowley deftly flips them over and Aziraphale finds himself on his back, Crowley thrusting into him, finding over and over again that spot deep inside that makes Aziraphale whimper and press his back against the mattress in an orgasm that seems to never end.  


Until, of course, it does, and Crowley collapses next to him, spent, out of breath and grinning widely.  


“That was” Crowley says, breathless, “way better than the Ark.”  


Aziraphale laughs.  


“Oh darling, I’m sure nothing could be worse than _that_.”  


Crowley chuckles too, and turns towards Aziraphale. His hand lands on Aziraphale’s side, pulling him a little closer, homely and safe.  


“It wasn’t that bad” he says, and his voice sounds pleased and shrugging.  


“It was ridiculous, is what it was, and frankly I’m amazed no one found us out, what with you laughing your head off!”  


Crowley’s hand makes a small circle on Aziraphale’s skin.  


“In all fairness, it _was_ fun. Even though we didn’t really know what we were doing.”  


“Or _how_.”  


Both smiling fondly, they fall quiet, lost in a five-thousand-year-old memory and each other’s eyes. _Eyes. Bodies_. The wonder of being able to touch, _be_ touched.  


“I love you” Aziraphale whispers, not for the first time, and it sounds like an apology.  


It is.  


“I _love_ you, and I wish my love for you could make me braver. Less afraid. You’re always looking out for me and coming to my rescue and putting up with all my antics and my fears and- _and being hurt because of me_ , and I can’t even bring myself to- to give you-”  


He flounders, and even lying on his bed, it feels like he is falling. Not in the falling-from-grace kind of way, but in falling from a high precipice kind of way, dreading the landing, because that is what hurts.  


“Angel.” Crowley’s voice is his usual blend of impatient and indulgent. “You’re overthinking.”  


He is and he knows it, but he cannot make it stop. If he were to do what Crowley asked of him in the park that time, if he were to give Crowley holy water… Not only would he have to acquire it by theft, because Aziraphale is not an archangel and cannot actually make holy water himself, that sin would be nothing compared to the possible consequences. If a drop, if even the slightest molecule of a drop accidentally touched Crowley… Crowley would disappear. For ever.  


“I’m so selfish!”  


“Yeah, angel, you kind of are” Crowley agrees, “but it’s honestly one of your best traits, so hold on to it.”  


There is no blame in his voice, only the curious blend of carefree, heartfelt sincerity. Just like that, the sensation of falling is swept away.  


“Let’s not dwell on it, Aziraphale. You were right, it won't solve anything. But I'm here. We both are. Surely there are better ways to spend the night?”  


His hand is no longer resting on Aziraphale’s side, but travelling. Up, up, leaving a warm trail in his wake until his thumb is on Aziraphale’s lips.  


“Come on, angel” he smirks, “your turn. Tempt me.”  


Those last two words cause a flutter in Aziraphale’s body; his entire being blushes. To think that he can offer temptation. That he can tempt _Crowley_ , be the one who meets Crowley’s desires. Looking up at Crowley, he swallows, then breathes out the question:  


“What do you want, Crowley?”  


“Five more minutes” the demon grins. Then he raises himself on one elbow and leans in, their bodies almost touching and Crowley’s mouth no more than a hairsbreadth from Aziraphale’s ear as he whispers: “And then I want you to fuck me, Aziraphale. As slowly as you can.”  


They kiss again, and get tangled in each other’s arms and legs for a lot longer than five minutes. Crowley is all tongue and hands and wrapping himself around Aziraphale, every inch of one’s skin touching every inch of the other, their bodies used to their fullest extent, physically, undeniably, together. And when Crowley uncurls himself and lays down on the bed again, his back turned, Aziraphale knows what he wants. Soon they are both on their side, as tightly fitted as cutlery, with Aziraphale’s arm around Crowley’s chest as he moves in slow thrusts.  


It is not fucking, although Crowley prefers to use that word.  


It is love-making.  


Gentle, and careful, with tiny kisses and many terms of endearment, and so excruciatingly slow it almost cannot be, until Crowley’s walls crumble at last and he orgasms in one long, continuous tremble, held securely in Aziraphale’s arms.

“Crowley?” he asks once they have settled in the bed some time later; both cleaned up and the linen miracled fresh and crisply clean once more. The night outside the window is dark and quiet; there are no more bombs tonight, and the air raid signals have fallen silent. Aziraphale is at the foot of the bed, wielding a bottle of aloe vera gel – much to the discomfort of one currently-not-so-imposing-but-rather-quite-helpless demon.  


“Myeah, angel?”  


Aziraphale looks up from the poor, blistered foot he has recently slathered with aloe vera. The pain must have dug deeper into his skin, because he reflexively jerks his feet away even from the cooling gel and winces all the while - although without much actual protest.  


“Never, _ever_ do anything stupid like this again” he pleads. “Risking your body and your very existence like this. Not for me, not for this idea of yours. You must promise me, Crowley! I couldn't bear to lose you. Not to burns, not to damned holy water. I just can't!  


Crowley grimaces.  


“Nah, I uh, I can’t promise that, angel.”  


“Why on earth _not_?”  


“Well, that would be contingent on you promising not to get yourself into stupid messes every other century, wouldn’t it?” the demon bites back.  


Aziraphale does not have a single word to say in his defence.  


“Now, you might be a bit of an idiot, and selfish, and self-important” Crowley continues, “but we’ve been together a long time now and I wouldn’t have you any other way. Wherever you are in the world, I’ll always come to you. Especially if you’re in trouble.”  


They are harsh words, those first ones, but the rest have Aziraphale sniffing.  


“I can’t help it” Crowley says, making the smallest of shrugs and smiling a distinctly apologetic smile. “I couldn't stand to lose you, either, Aziraphale. You’re my best friend.”  


Aziraphale lets out a shuddering breath. His eyes are firmly locked with Crowley’s; golden, shimmering and painfully sincere, just like his words, and they ease something inside him. He cannot give Crowley what he wants, but he has not lost him. They are still here, now, together, and maybe that is all that truly matters.  


“I love you too” he says. “You wily, old serpent.”  


Crowley smiles, and there is not a more beautiful sight in the world.  


“Come here, angel.”  


He reaches out his hand and Aziraphale takes it without hesitation, allows himself to be pulled closed. There is no dread now, no sensation of an impending fall, and when their lips meet once more, Aziraphale’s soul soars, and his heart sings.  


He is home, and it is Crowley who has brought him here.


End file.
